Chapter 1 - Rose-Tinted Glasses (TCS)
He's telling the wrong story. She wanted him to explain it in terms of magic and wishes and fairy tales. But instead, he has to use the "right language" for the explanation of how a Fire Bro can shoot balls of hot fire from his hands, or how a boo can turn invisible at any second. "It is a mechanical, technical problem--a problem of mathematics and science!" He'd always say. What a crock of muth manure. Despite Sora's irritation, she simply lowered her head and nodded at the explanation of necromancy. She couldn't disrespect her professor Grousel, after all! Gotta make papa proud, as they say! “Do you understand, Sora Clucario?” Her old, decrepit Fire Bro professor asked. “It’s quite simple, really.” Sora couldn’t help but clamp her hands over her internal ears. “Yeah, and it only took about…-” She glanced up at the clock affixed on the dull brown wall. It was still more exciting than Grousel, Sora snorted to herself, “- ...three hours for that explanation. A new record!” Grousel sighs with disappointment, leaning against the castle window. The ancient saguaros stand out in silhouette against the fading orange rim of the horizon. The first stars are dim pinpricks in the painted sky as the heat leaves Gusty Gulch with the light. Sora shivers. “Do you care about your education, Sora?” The old professor asks, “you sure are adamant about not taking this seriously.” The Fire Bro spoke calmly, as if he was addressing no more than an old friend, but puffs of smoke escaping from his nostrils betrayed his frustration. “I think you’re crazy.” Sora knew that she could be punished for showing such obvious disrespect for an exalted professor of Gusty Gulch, but she felt good about this. “If you want to overtly deny the existence of magic, go on ahead. Just don’t waste my time.” Sora shifted nervously in her seat as her professor paced solemnly around her desk. He ignited fire from his hand, as if pulling the heat from the sand, from the distant stars, from the molten core of the Mushroom World itself. The searing pain of the heat shoot through Sora as the flames licked her face. He watched Sora as she struggled against it before forcing the fire back into a simple flame. "This is all science," Grousel grunted in response to her insubordination. “I’m doing this to help you, Sora. I won’t let you fall victim to the UAAM.” Grousel named the governmentally sponsored organization that had sprung up in the past decade and a half, armed with the ability to arrest and detain any persons suspected of using magic. “I can see I’ve lost your attention and your desire to keep learning,” Grousel continues, crossing his arms with disapproval. “You’re dismissed.” Sora drew herself up to her full height, her elegant teal wings flapping with disdain. Grousel was just an aging Fire Brother, greying and dulling scales adorning his snout like unsightly rashes. She was a powerful, young, teal ParaClubba, her scales glinting brilliantly in the sunlight and sparkling beautifully in the moonlight, supple orange lips clashing splendidly with her soft scales and clear and unblemished white hair. Turning around in a huff, she pushed her way out of the classroom. Sora guided herself through the narrow corridors of the castle. “Wow, I haven’t seen Grousel look so disappointed since… well, ever.” A snide, crisp voice reached her ears. Sora snorted in disdain when she saw the green blotch of him out of the corner of her eye. Like a vulture, the spoiled prince began to follow her as she trudged down the hallway. “What are you doing here, you spoiled brat?” Sora snaps at the heir. The son of the King, fifteen years old, the prince was named after his famous father, Tubba the Second, the one who had wrestled Gusty Gulch back from the Koopas. Tubba the Third was his name, but no one called him Tubba: he went by the rather uncreative nickname “Thirde,” given to him by the Commander of the Armies, Paralus. He was an unremarkable Clubba, coming in the standard green scaled colour, and with orange lips. There were rumours that Thirde got defensive when his lack of difference from the average Clubba was mentioned. Sora curled her lip: she knew exactly how to get under his scales. “For your information, it’s my castle,” Thirde calmly strode toward her. “Don’t change the subject from how disappointed Grousel was with you.” His green scales were of the lime green colour, more common than the rarer, emerald green scales that Sora’s own mother possessed. “It’s not your castle yet,” the heir was making Sora irritable. “You’re not fit to be King anyway. It’s a pipe dream.” “Those are some bold words for a commoner like yourself,” Thirde spat, his green knuckles curling around the club he held in his right hand. “Do you really think you’d make a better monarch? Please!” Sora rolled her eyes: she would exercise all of the two extra years she possessed on Thirde - he wasn’t worth arguing with. She stretched opened her sturdy, bat-like wings proudly, readying to fly. With a flap of her wings, she lifted into the air, making sure to blow the wind over Thirde. It was a feeling of liberation, to lift into the air and feel unbound by the ground. A ParaClubba learns to fly at quite a young age, learning how to keep themselves balanced and not let their great weight prevent them flying. With powerful muscles located in the wings, it only took a flap or two to allow the air to buoy one up. Limited by the indoors, Sora only floated over Thirde’s head before touching back down on the carpeted stone floor. Ignoring the Clubban heir as he tried to re-engage her in conversation, she flitted down a side hall in the direction of the Castle’s living quarters. Paintings were arranged before her in frames of polished oak and cedar as she entered the living quarters. They depicted famous events in Clubban history, such as a tale that had entrenched itself into folklore: Tubba, the current King, thrusting out a blood-red hand, looking away from a kneeling Muth, sand spraying around them, for the Muth had come to a screeching halt. It was supposedly a true tale, but Sora doubted it’s validity. She caught sight of her mother, her eyes squinting in the dim light. “Sora!” The emerald green ParaClubba that was her mother calls her, entranced by a portrait on the wall. Groaning internally, Sora approached her mother, knowing about the lecture she was about to be subject to. Gonzales, the father she never knew, stood proudly in the picture frame, his orange eyes glistening with pride, his blue scales brighter than Sora had heard them described in life, and his dark orange hair blazing. “You’re working hard, I take it?” Juranils spoke with a slight accent, causing a rumble to echo in her voice occasionally. Sora had heard stories that her mother’s voice was virtually snarls and growls when she arrived at Gusty Gulch, another story which had Sora doubting it’s validity. Clubbas had an awful tendency to exaggerate. “Of course, mother,” Sora managed to breathe out, before turning her head away and whispering the lecture her mother had prepared under her breath, making the voice unnaturally high and singsong. “Sora, you have to work hard under Grousel. Science is the innovative wave of the future. It’s what your father would’ve wanted.” Not if magic is inherently superior in every way. Sora rolled her eyes with that thought. “You’re lying to me, Sora. I don’t like that.” Her mother’s voice leaked with venomous intent. “You are seventeen years old,” her mother said savagely, “you shouldn’t expect to have everything on a platter, not three years into adulthood, not anymore.” Sora felt her grip tighten into a fist. Was her mother comparing her to that low-life, spoiled, sorry excuse for a Clubban prince?! “It’s not about having everything on a platter,” she said through clenched teeth. “It’s about magic being the far less arduous option. Even a brain-dead Goomba could understand that.” “You’ve been listening to the tripe that comes out of that Clubba on the throne?” Her mother’s voice sounded guttural, her accent seeping into her words. “I have no idea what the Royal Council was thinking when they reinstated him as monarch…” The Royal Council was a ten member council of Clubbas, nine of the members were elected by the Clubban populace, while the tenth one, the Commander of the Armies, was appointed by the monarch. As a whole, the Council has the responsibility to appoint a monarch in times of turmoil. “And you intend to listen to that crusty, half-baked Fire Bro? I’ll take my chances with the King any day.” Sora spat the words back at her mother, but was acutely aware that the Clubba King had backed down when confronted by their Mushroom Allies, agreeing to outlawing the study of magic in his Kingdom. “I think you need to apologize to Grousel for your petty attitude today,” Juranils curled her emerald green wings under her snout with displeasure. “And an apology to me wouldn’t hurt either.” “Of course, your majesty,” Sora snorted, “I’ll wipe your ass while I’m at it.” With a flutter of her wings, she took off to her room, not waiting for a reply from her mother. It was asinine, Sora reflected, to ignore the benefits of magic and fall under nasally Grousel’s stupor of science being the only explanation to exist.